


A Glacier's Patience

by Cinaed



Series: Restoration, or All Roads Lead to Ishval [3]
Category: Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Community: fma_fic_contest, Gen, Genocide, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-22
Updated: 2010-11-22
Packaged: 2017-10-13 08:01:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/134987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cinaed/pseuds/Cinaed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Olivier's first view of Ishval is obscured by her aide's head.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Glacier's Patience

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers for the entire series. The line and title comes from Neko Case's [This Tornado Loves You](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_FhVbyeWFvo).

Olivier's first view of Ishval is obscured by her aide's head. One level look and raised eyebrow later, her aide has hastily found somewhere else in the train's compartment to sit, and Olivier has an unobstructed view through the window. 

She has seen photographs, of course, of the rebuilding. Miles has sent her countless over the years (and probably spent half his wages in shipping charges during the undertaking). A few of those photographs are currently in her briefcase. 

Here in the western district, where the irrigation works best, she sees verdant greenery and fields of cotton, startling white and green colors against the pale blue sky and stretches of golden sand. Further on, she knows the scenery will shift to something more cosmpolitan, tall brown and tan-hued structures rising from the earth. 

She touches the briefcase, closes her eyes for a moment. Among the pictures of the new Ishval, there are sepia-toned pictures of the old-- silent condemnations that reveal the diminished holy land, all the buildings and temples and people no longer there. 

"Madam Fuhrer?" her aide asks tentatively. He has only been with her since the swearing-in ceremony, and has not yet learned she despises timidity, both in her equals and her subordinates. "Are you all right?"

Someone snorts, loudly, at the idea of Olivier being anything other than fine-- Captain Casspir, no doubt, who has followed her from Briggs to Central and finally to the Fuhrer's office. 

Olivier opens her eyes, fixes her aide with another level expression, this one implying she is being almost kind by pretending he hasn't asked such a ridiculous question. 

This time, she tunes out his stammering apologies. 

**  
** 

Miles is there to greet her. The high priests of Ishvala stand with neutral expressions at his left shoulder; at his right stand the seven highest-ranking Amestrian soldiers serving the protectorate. 

"Fuhrer Armstrong," Miles says. For once he has abandoned those glasses of his; she can see his gaze, warm and steady as he studies her, taking in the changes the years have wrought. 

"Colonel," she says. The new rank rolls easily off her tongue.

She is close enough to see the smallest twitch to his lips, the only hint to his repressed smile. Apparently he is still adjusting to his promotion. She wonders if he has turned sentimental enough to keep the telegraph and its message: 

_Armstrong STOP Will be inducted as Fuhrer in one month STOP Don't expect you at the ceremony STOP First act will make you official military liason to Ishval STOP Congratulations, Colonel END_

One of the priests steps forward, extends his hands. She accepts them in the formal Ishvalan standard Miles described in one of his letters. The gesture earns her an appraising look. "We welcome you to Ishval, Fuhrer Armstrong," the priest says. 

He isn't the Grand Cleric, who has not made an appearace. Olivier knows this is not the slight it seems-- the Grand Cleric has his reasons to dislike moments likes these, when photographers are everywhere and reporters drift among the crowd. 

Besides, Olivier will be seeing the Grand Cleric privately, in a few short hours. 

**  
**

The night, in Miles's office, she and Miles share a drink. She has brought the alcohol all the way from Central. As useless as Central is half the time, she'll admit they make excellent whisky.

"Grumman never came here," Miles says, once they have toasted to old comrades and then to their own personal successes. He says it matter-of-factly, but his gaze is searching. 

"No," Olivier says. She doesn't elaborate. She will, once the final guest arrives. Instead she asks, "How is the mood?" 

Judging by Miles's expression, he knows she's putting him off, but he shakes his head and answers. "There's less negativity than we expected. It helps that you were at Briggs during the Ishvalan war." 

A new voice speaks from the doorway, low and calm. "And we remember what you did for Miles." 

She sets her glass down, carefully, and then turns to look. He has changed, she thinks. It is not just superficial, in that he has done something with his hair; he holds himself differently, with an inner calm that she knows has come through years of prayer and private soul-searching. 

"Grand Cleric," she says, and allows herself a smile.

"Fuhrer," he answers and comes to sit next to Miles. 

Neither she nor Miles makes the mistake of offering him a drink. 

He leans forward, the lamplight catching on the pale white scars that once earned him an alias, and studies her for a moment. "So, Fuhrer Armstrong," he says quietly. "Why are you truly here?" 

 _I have waited with a glacier's patience. To be Fuhrer and to make Amestris great without the Homunculi as puppet masters. And I think perhaps you have waited just as long for what I am about to say,_  she wants to tell him, but doesn't, because that sort of poetic nonsense is exactly what Alex would spout. 

Instead she raises her glass and says, watching both their expressions, "Tomorrow, before the Grand Temple, I will announce Ishval's independence."

**Author's Note:**

> 


End file.
